She ignored it until it repeated itself. "Sir Cecil is no more. I hear her coming. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance.
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