Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. E. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. He seemed to deliberate. Stay! I'll go myself.
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