But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. But all this business has driven it clean out of my head. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that.
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