He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. “I want to be your friend,” he said. But that instinct is severely dampened most of the time.
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