He waited. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. 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. He struck out from the shoulder, and the man measured his length upon the pavement. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously.
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