In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. She would have to leave very soon. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. ” “And yet,” he murmured, “one of the greatest of our writers has declared that the true spirit of Bohemianism is denied to your sex. “So you’d best open your coffers. . . .
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