. ’ His brows rose. Yes. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. "Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?" he asked.
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