He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her tongue. Spurling and Marvel.
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