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a web of many textures

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Did you like her vocalization?” asked the amateur,
reaching over the seat on which Mrs. Partington was
sitting, as a young lady finished the singing of a favorite
piece of music, in a manner that set every heart
thrilling with pleasure to hear her. — “What did you
say?” said she, turning partly round. — “Did you like
her vocalization?” he repeated. — “Yes,” replied she,
with animation, beating the time on her umbrella-handle,
“and I liked her singing too.” She kept on, like a jolly
old wheelbarrow — “Why should we send to Europe
and England and France and Fiddledee for executioners
of music, when we can find such voices at home by our
own fireplaces? It seemed to me while she was singing


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that we were getting over the bars of heaven, and had
come to a rest on top when she stopped. The music of
the spears can't be no better. But do look at that
boy! I declare I believe he will be a prodigal of musical
talons, by and by, if he lives long enough.” She pointed
at Ike, who had secured a long-handled contribution-box
out of the deacon's pew, and had transformed it
into an imaginary violoncello, playing upon it with the
handle of a deceased palm-leaf fan, the fragments of
which strewed the floor.