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The Uncommercial Traveller by Charles Dickens
page 64 of 480 (13%)

'Well!' says Mr. Superintendent, laying his hand on the shoulder of
the swarthy youth, 'and who's this?'

'Antonio, sir.'

'And what does HE do here?'

'Come to give us a bit of music. No harm in that, I suppose?'

'A young foreign sailor?'

'Yes. He's a Spaniard. You're a Spaniard, ain't you, Antonio?'

'Me Spanish.'

'And he don't know a word you say, not he; not if you was to talk
to him till doomsday.' (Triumphantly, as if it redounded to the
credit of the house.)

'Will he play something?'

'Oh, yes, if you like. Play something, Antonio. YOU ain't ashamed
to play something; are you?'

The cracked guitar raises the feeblest ghost of a tune, and three
of the women keep time to it with their heads, and the fourth with
the child. If Antonio has brought any money in with him, I am
afraid he will never take it out, and it even strikes me that his
jacket and guitar may be in a bad way. But, the look of the young
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