” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. Without hindrance—present occupation. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. Acting upon this humane determination, he impelled himself slowly backwards,—for he did not dare to face the blast,—and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the crevice.
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