Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. "Has no man ever kissed you?" "No. While there's life there's hope.
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