‘Quick, Gérard. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. There was no need to be afraid for me. The students passed Juicy Fruit sticks and notes back and forth, bartering various forms of social currency. But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation.
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