She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. I worship you. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago.
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