Groups of boys took to ogling her as she walked frenetically from class to class. That's the only fault I know of. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. So far she had the utmost difficulty in getting on to that vitally important matter. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. “I said you were”—he shouted—“NOT TO GO!” She made, and overdid, an immense effort to be a princess. And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion.
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