Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Stars appeared in the periphery of her vision. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort.
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