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” He paused. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. “Why?” he asked, suavely. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. “The little English girl is very fortunate. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Wild," said the turnkey, trembling in every joint. If you don’t eat humble-pie now you may live to fare worse later.
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