’ The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. It fell with a clatter to the floor. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her.
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