This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. "And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence. ” He said wistfully. Are you now satisfied?" "No," interposed Wood, furiously, "I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn.
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