He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. ‘But you have told them that I have been disguised, no? That I have broken into Remenham House, and—’ ‘No, no, child, don’t be alarmed,’ said her great-aunt, her tone soothing. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners.
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