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"Tom," continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, "don't go home. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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