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She stood by the bench, one hand resting on it; she stood all in the tremulant shadow. She moved one step toward him, and a single, long sliver of light pierced the sycamores and fell upon her head. He gasped. "What was it about the melodies?" she said. "Nothing! I don't know how to thank you for this evening that you have given me. I I suppose you are leaving to-morrow. No one ever stays here.
Regina, open the organ, and play something soft and holy, with the Tremulant. Sing me that dear old 'Protect us through the coming eight, which my Douglass loves so well." "I wish I could, but you know, sir, it is a quartette; and beside, I should never get through my part: it reminds me so painfully of the last time we all sang it." "Well then, my little girl, something else.
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