He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. . "Of course, I haven't the least evidence that the boy has done anything wrong; it's what I'd call a hunch; piecing this and that together. Gracious, there’s the gong. The others hurried to the window. . . Then he turned on his heel and walked off. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes.
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