like forty
angels and
not a
copper! He
had begun
another
tune--like
little
pluckings
at your
heart--tres
joli--tout
a fait
ecoeurant!
Ah, there
it was--a
monsieur
as usual
closing
the
window,
drawing
the
curtains!
Always
same
thing! The
violin and
the bow
were
thrust
back into
his hands;
and the
tall
strange
monsieur
was off as
if devils
were after
him--not
badly
drunk,
that one!
And not a
sou thrown
down! With
an uneasy
feeling
that he
