He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. "If we take him, I don't mind giving you a share—say a fourth—provided you lend a helping hand. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. I'm burning up. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot.
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