She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. “Do you see what I was talking about, Strings?” No one is going to want to hear a note from you until you have tone like.
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