“What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. Don’t be frightened, dear. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere.
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