" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. ‘Not yet, madame. Kneebone, who was on the point of departing. ‘Assuredly it is locked up. Gosse sneered. “So it seems that I was wrong. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried.
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