Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. Abruptly would come the end. “I was sick of the make-believe. “No. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you.
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