It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. I will dedicate my books to you. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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