By a sort of instinct. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. On the contrary, his glass was never idle, and finding it not filled quite so frequently as he desired, he applied himself, notwithstanding the expressive looks and muttered remonstrances of Mr. "That is good. ” He seemed to be elaborating ideas as he talked. ’ A laugh escaped her.
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