"I beg pardon," he said. "Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. At that, the girl jumped up. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. If only to say goodbye. “When they tap the roof,” she said, in a voice of authority, “you are to come out. He's passed through some rough mental torture.
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