Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. M. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. Jonathan threw open the street-door. “I’m not a good woman.
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