"A good idea!" exclaimed the carpenter. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed.
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