The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. And yet, she would be easy prey in her present state of mind to any plausible, attractive scoundrel. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming.
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