Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. Wood, who had merely absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in readiness. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. Courtlaw. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. I could not have spoken to her. The affair passed at one leap from a spree to a nightmare of violence and disgust.
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