The cellists of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra sat and smiled. An angular gentleman in an ill-fitting dress suit, Wilhelm Furtwangler by name, who had just completed his farewell concert as guest conductor, was asking them to get up, to bow as he himself was bowing in gracious acknowledgment of the battering applause that assaulted his ears. But the cellists smiled at him; they beat with their right hands upon the claret-colored wood of their big fiddles to show that they, too, admired as much as the assembly which now, through the clapping,...
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