He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. An old woman took her in. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. You’ll end up dead, that’s what. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. .
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