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Fuller, Henry Blake, 1857-1929

"Bertram Cope's Year"


And so we end--every one of us. The great thing is to crowd in all the
action we can before the final plunge comes--to go skipping and splashing
as hard and long and fast and far as we may!"
A valuable thought, possibly, and elaborated beyond Randolph's sketchy and
casual utterance; but Amy looked uncomfortable and chilled and glanced with
little favor at a few other flat stones lying at her feet. "Please don't.
Please change the subject," she seemed to ask.
She changed it herself. "You sang beautifully," she said, with some return
of warmth--even with some approach to fervor.
"Oh, I can sing," he returned nonchalantly, "if I can only have my hands in
my pockets, or waving in the air, or anywhere but on a keyboard."
"I wish you had let them persuade you to sing another." She was not only
willing to admire, but desirous: conscientious amends, perhaps, for an
earlier verdict. "One or two more skips, you know, after getting started."
"Oh, once was enough. A happy coincidence. The next might have been an
unhappy one."
"You have never learned to accompany yourself?"
"As you've seen, I'm a rather poor hand at it; I've depended a good deal on
others.


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