But, here they are. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. Their conversation became stilted. Kneebone were here to protect me!" "If it is Jonathan," rejoined Wood, "it is very well for Mr. ’ ‘Will you go back there?’ asked Gerald. I—listen. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am.
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