He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. It was too good to be true.
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