’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall.
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