She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. “Afterwards it seems to me that there are no limits to what one may not do amongst one’s own set. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. "My little Hoddy! You used to love me; and I have always loved you. Enschede halted. How dare you use my name and sing my songs?” Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner.
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