“Mr. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. ‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. You're the first widow I ever heard of who could withstand that lure. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy.
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