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Tarkington, Booth, 1869-1946

"The Turmoil, a novel"


For a moment she was nonplussed, then she opened the gate and went
in. "You'll come after dinner, then?"
"Yes," he said, not moving. "Would you mind if I stood here until
time to come in?"
She had reached the steps, and at that she turned, offering him the
response of laughter and a gay gesture of her muff toward the lighted
windows of the New House, as though bidding him to run home to his
dinner.
That night, Bibbs sat writing in his note-book.
Music can come into a blank life, and fill it. Everything that
is beautiful is music, if you can listen.
There is no gracefulness like that of a graceful woman at a grand
piano. There is a swimming loveliness of line that seems to merge
with the running of the sound, and you seem, as you watch her, to
see what you are hearing and to hear what you are seeing.
There are women who make you think of pine woods coming down to
a sparkling sea. The air about such a woman is bracing, and when
she is near you, you feel strong and ambitious; you forget that
the world doesn't like you. You think that perhaps you are a great
fellow, after all. Then you come away and feel like a boy who has
fallen in love with his Sunday-school teacher.


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