I find you an impenetrable enigma. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The poor things! Oh, it was quite dreadful. I believed that our marriage was genuine. “We must go. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year.
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