I don't care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. ” Ann Veronica started from her reverie, sat up in her chair, became attentive. The worst was over now. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations.
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