Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. ‘But the major—’ ‘The major can say nothing at all. My heart fails me. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken, Sir. ‘She wants you. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea.
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