Since I came to Summer
Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in
the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she
wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that
she would be."
"In what way?"
Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing
up and down the terrace.
"I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was
simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them.
I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss
Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture
number two: the string breaks."
The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards,
when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given
surreptitious tugs to the string himself.
"But the string never broke?"
"No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should
certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall."
"It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones.
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