All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. For the present the desire to fly was gone. Still—you must learn for yourself. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. “Why not?” “Because you are mine.
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