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Sheppard, you mean, Sir," interrupted his wife, ironically. At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs. You see—I didn’t understand. Sheppard, distractedly. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. "Thank you, Mrs. .
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