"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. "My janizaries are within call," returned Wild. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over the ledge, and sank.
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