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82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. "I wouldn't force him for the world: but if he don't tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he don't get a taste of the aqua pompaginis.
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