’ ‘Don’t be a little fool,’ Gerald snapped irritably. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. His face clouded with anger. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. ’ Gerald eyed her. “That’s. ‘You see, Melusine, that none of our visitors were as informed as they would wish to be.
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