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White calls them. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. “Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. She passed down the stairs and into the street. Papa doesn't even care, but he just goes along with whatever my Mom says. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light.
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