" That was true, thought Spurlock. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Their very furniture had mysteriously a high-browed quality, and Mr. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet.
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