He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. Melusine, intent on the luckless Kimble, did not care. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Burn your palette and your easel. When I awoke I followed my instinct to Athena’s temple.
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