She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. And there's your liver. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. We married, and for a time we were happy. “I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances,” he answered. In the sixth center row sat an unexpected guest, his Classical Greek features stark in the yellow half light.
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