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The Halo by Bettina Von Hutten
page 49 of 333 (14%)
whom she had come to town?

This man's face was that of a priest adoringly performing the rites of
his religion. His head thrown back, his fine mouth set in lines of
ecstatic reverence, he played on and on, his eyes unseeing, or rather
the eyes of one seeing visions.

He was a creature of no country, no age. His grey hair failed to make
him old, big unwrinkled face failed to make him young. And as he
played--to _her_, she knew--years of imprisonment and sorrow seemed to
drop from the girl; she forgot all the bitterness, all the resentment
that had spoiled her life hitherto, and she felt as she leaned back in
her chair and listened as if she had at last come to a haven and found
youth awaiting her there.




CHAPTER SEVEN


It is pleasant to wake to the sound of exquisite--and sufficiently
distant--music. It is also pleasant to wake to the odour of good--and
sufficiently distant--coffee.

The morning after her remarkable arrival in Golden Square Brigit Mead
awoke to both these pleasant things. Somewhere downstairs someone was
playing a simple, plaintive air on a violin, and still further away
someone was making coffee--delicious coffee.

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