“I don’t care a rap for remembering. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. You dear, dear girl. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. I want to enrich it with hangings and gladden it with verses.
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