He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed.
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