Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. “Showtime!” Martin cried. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. CHAPTER XII. .
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