There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. Once before—but that had been different. "No—Sheppard?" rejoined Wild. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write.
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