In the next place, she really had some pretensions to beauty. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. “I hope nothing is wrong. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage.
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