She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. This too shall pass. It was a mad half-hour. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. That he’s come here at all shows he’ll stop at nothing.
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