The light would betray us. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like.
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