In the organ loft there was a group which clustered together, scarcely venturing to breathe. The Signor was the one who had most command of himself. “I always knew it would come back,” he said in sharp staccato syllables, as he played on. Young Purcell, who loved her, sat down in the shadow and laughed and cried, blubbering not with dignity. The Minor Canon, who did not once take his eyes from her, waiting the moment that she might falter or want succour, watched, looking over the carved rail with face lighted up like her own.
Thus was Lottie restored to Art; was it to Love too?
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