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“Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. His expression became pained.

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