There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. “Some day,” she answered. “An annuity—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through my solicitors, and which you can consider as a gift from your sister. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked.
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