Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something.
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