She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice. ‘She ought to be. You are the one person I can understand and feel—feel right with. Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. But it's an odd case. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse.
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