Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Death belongs to God, young man. “That is as you will,” she said. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season.
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