“Are you free tomorrow? Should I call?” He asked. Jolly nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip Are dug from the mines of canary; And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip With hogsheads of claret and sherry. And because he knew it was a burden, there was no gaiety upon the doctor's face; neither was there speech on his tongue. That was an admission all right. “Will he live?” The doctor shook his head. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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