“I suppose things have changed?” she said. He flipped the television off. ‘It will suit me very well that you go away, because you are a person without sense and I do not wish to talk to you. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. Refused admittance, they broke open the door.
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