She had fallen asleep. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. ’ He sighed elaborately. ” Mr. ” “Why not?” “You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing —” “Don’t go home. Natives are queer. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words.
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