There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met.
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