Sepulchre's clock struck eight. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Brown gushed conservatively about the orchestra, letting the audience know about the recording engineers and how proud he was of Martin Chen. They set about everyone—everyone. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day.
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