When she was a little girl, almost as long ago as she could remember,
she used to say, when the other Terence played this very music, that
it did not mean anything. But now it meant something. Meant something!
It meant--everything, Kathleen thought, and yet she could not tell at
all what it meant. It was not happiness that it meant, and it was not
sorrow; it was not merry, and it was not grave. Sometimes it was light
and gentle and sweet, and flowed along as if it were a little
fountain of music, bubbling and bubbling out of a hidden place; then
it would be slower, but fine and firm, and full and free and true. It
seemed to Kathleen to mean so much, and yet she could not tell what,
except that there was something like a deep longing that went all
through it.
And that made her think of the other Terence's music again, for she
remembered now, though she had never thought of it before, that there
was a longing in his music too. Perhaps she had done wrong, she
thought, to say that it did not mean anything. Still, this was so
different.
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