I won’t even ask. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. This also struck her as odd. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said.
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