The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. But it sounds too real to be imagined. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. I'll tell you what. Annabel thought, and thought again.
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