‘You’ve cause to be grateful to Gerald, then. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. She must learn wisdom—as God pleases. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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