In addition, the Fadden Dance business, all out of proportion, occupied the whole foreground of her thoughts and threw a color of rebellion over everything. He seemed wholly insensible to the rain, though it presently descended in torrents, and continued his search as ardently as before. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that.
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