Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. “John, we should be getting out of here. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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