This was enough for the poor widow. Vorsack sat alone at his computer in his pajamas. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. She seemed tense when not playing, he noted, more so than she had during the first two pieces. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child.
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