He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. . ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head.
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