’ He sighed elaborately. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. May we not repeat them once, at any rate, in London? “Ever yours, “NIGEL ENNISON. Ten thousand islands, and each one good for a night's rest. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love.
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