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Old Miss Meibel, however, took with a deliberate air a pinch of snuff out of her porcelain pug and gave her opinion that 'such impudent caterwauling was not singing; singing should be low and melodious. My friend, the organist, never showed himself again, and, in truth, I did not miss him in the least I was the happiest fellow in the world.
The French chorister was not daunted by the Lottchen, but, as my uncle maintained, sang his part, spectacles on nose, in the finest falsetto that ever proceeded forth from a human breast. She assumed airs of importance, required a good deal of coaxing, but at last consented, so that we came to have bravuras in our concerts. She was a singular creature this Miss Meibel.
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