One day it was gone. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux. It is dull—deadly dull. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. “Curious case,” said Ogilvy, buttering his bread and cutting it up in a way he had. Meanwhile, the mob outside had prodigiously increased, and had begun to exhibit some disposition to riot.
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