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The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. What with these converging roofs that shut out all but a hand's breadth of the sky, sunshine was rare at this point. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost.
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