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“So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. "Dawn Pearl!… come here!" She moved to the side of the bed. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. All these things spoke of peace;—but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness.
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