I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. “It is very doubtful,” he said. When I was younger, I was very sick with a deadly flu. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set.
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