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It was not the Harmony who had bade a brave farewell to Scatchy and the Big Soprano in the station who fled to her refuge on the upper floor of the house in the Wollbadgasse.
That night, while the Portier and his wife slept under their crimson feather beds and the crystals of the chandelier in the salon shook in the draft as if the old Austrian court still danced beneath, Harmony fought her battle. And a battle it was. Scatchy and the Big Soprano had not known everything. There had been no insurance on her father's life; the little mother was penniless.
"Soul is a better word. Only the rich ought to have souls, Scatchy, dear." This was over the younger girl's head, and anyhow Harmony was coming down the hall. "I thought, under her pillow," she whispered. "She'll find it " Harmony came in, to find the Big Soprano heating a curler in the flame of a candle.
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