"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. Good riddance. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. ” He made a step toward her.
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