He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. “You must not think of me as one. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “You wouldn’t. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge.
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