She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. I dared not sing, I dared not laugh, except when you went away. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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