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He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. " "What?" "We'll put those stories back into the trunk and never speak of them to him. ‘You have every right to be angry with me. Hell, my mom hates everyone, don’t take this personally, but she doesn’t like you very much and she isn’t shy about letting me know. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. .
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