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. The Iron Bar. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. Anywhere! Moonlight and music—pleasing, you know, but quite unnecessary. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. " O'Higgins extracted a cigar from a pocket and inspected it.
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