’ ‘Militia, miss,’ Kimble corrected her. They were so good to me. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. He understood. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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