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” The suitcase loomed in her memory, making its presence felt once again. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. . He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ‘Pitiful.
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