“I suppose you could at least tune it for us if you know how to play. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. What's it like, Joan?" "It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?.
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