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“They might do you good,” she remarked. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. ToC During the whole of the next day and night, the poor widow hovered like a ghost about the precincts of the debtors' garrison,—for admission (by the Master's express orders,) was denied her. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. And we'll see whether it won't put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino, and the 'divine' Farinelli at its head. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments.
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