” “It isn’t necessary,” they both declared breathlessly. For a time they walked in silence. They sat in the front row. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. I just never had anything else fun to do. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. Playing became a way of escape.
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