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and aid him in the creation of a masterpiece,
-
before shooting up through the musical firmament,
-
eventually obliging Pater to admit that yes,
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the son he disinherited is none other than Robert Frobisher,
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the greatest British composer of his time.
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I know, Sixsmith, you groan and shake your head,
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but you smile too,
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which is why I love you.
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P.S.
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Thanks for the waistcoat.
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I needed something of yours to keep me company.
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St. George and the Dragon.