His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. If they had any idea the concerts he had seen, they would have known the quality of her playing. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. That's the way she strikes me. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights.
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