. ” “Well”—her breath failed her for a moment. "Good night, Master. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. His glance came up again and met hers. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited.
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