He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. I will go to-night. “But, you see, appearances are very much against me. Another instance was that of Toby Tanner—" "No more of this," interrupted Trenchard; "where is the boy?" "Not far hence," replied Wild.
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