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I often look back upon that night long, long ago. And if I close
my eyes and think hard I can see that parlor just as it was then:
a funny little man in coat-tails, with a round kind face, playing
away on the flute in front of the fire; my mother on one side of
him and my father on the other, holding their breath and
listening with their eyes shut; myself, with Jip, squatting on
the carpet at his feet, staring into the coals; and Polynesia
perched on the mantlepiece beside his shabby high hat, gravely
swinging her head from side to side in time to the music. I see
it all, just as though it were before me now.
And then I remember how, after we had seen the Doctor out at the
front door, we all came back into the parlor and talked about him
till it was still later; and even after I did go to bed (I had
never stayed up so late in my life before) I dreamed about him
and a band of strange clever animals that played flutes and
fiddles and drums the whole night through.
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