"That we were afraid," replied the other; "but never mind her. I will dedicate my books to you. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. I was certain of it.
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