It reverberated in the silence. Anna turned deliberately away from the bedside. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. The Jacobite IV. What else was there lurked in shadows and deep places; if in some mood of reverie it came out into the light, it was presently overwhelmed and hustled back again into hiding. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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