She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. A carpenter's daughter is no fit match for a peer of France.
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