I was—I was a corespondent. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. Nothing would stop her, and she was prepared to face the consequences. 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 urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison.
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