The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. "I don't know what I think," Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the scene. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. My father was Colonel Pellissier. This is a good piano.
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