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Updated: June 19, 2025
It was ten years since they had gone. No. If Richard Nicholson hadn't been Mr. Sutcliffe's nephew, she couldn't, no matter how big and how celebrated he was, or how badly he wanted her help or she wanted his money. No matter how wonderful and important it would feel to be Richard Nicholson's secretary. It wasn't really his money that she wanted.
His eyes were fixed, fixed on the white, slender arm that lay across his wife's lap. And Mrs. Sutcliffe's eyes were fixed on the queer, strained face. Uncle Victor's letter was almost a relief. She had not yet allowed herself to imagine what Morfe would be like without the Sutcliffes. And, after all, they wouldn't have to live in it.
He was far away from the place where she heard herself playing, but she could feel his face turned on her like a light. The first movement died on its two chords. Somebody was saying "How beautifully she plays." Life and warmth flowed into her. Exquisite, tingling life and warmth. "Go on. Go on." Mr. Sutcliffe's voice sounded miles away beyond the music. She went on into the lovely Allegretto.
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