There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. ’ ‘Have no fear. I've seen him often do it. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter.
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