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When Mrs. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. "He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. So here I am, king of all I survey, with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player. ” “I like the mystical way,” she said. .
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