Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. Kneebone nodded. He did not like it. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. . ’ With difficulty, Gerald bit back a laugh. It was the bitterest moment of her life. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. I’m a female thing at bottom.
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