He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. ’ ‘Ah. ‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. Oh, goodness! Bilking! Ann Veronica, you’re a bilker!” Pause. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief.
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