"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut, with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best possible spirits for an encounter. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it. ’ ‘A mistake, I agree.
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