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The Woman with the Fan by Robert Smythe Hichens
page 42 of 387 (10%)

He crossed his long legs and leaned back, resting his head on a cushion,
and puffing the smoke towards the ceiling.

"They all seemed cheery--what? Even Lady Cardington only cried when you
were squallin'."

It was Lord Holme's habit to speak irreverently of anything he happened
to admire.

"She had reason to cry. Miss Filberte's accompaniment was a tragedy. She
never comes here again."

"What's the row with her? I thought her fingers got about over the piano
awful quick."

"They did--on the wrong notes."

She came and sat down beside him.

"You don't understand music, Fritz, thank goodness."

"I know I don't. But why thank what's-his-name?"

"Because the men that do are usually such anaemic, dolly things, such
shaved poodles with their Sunday bows on."

"What about that chap Pierce? He's up to all the scales and thingumies,
isn't he?"

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