“John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. We have both tried hard to develop it—you and I —and we have failed. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. "Then we're imprisoned.
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