Until the last few months. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. God had never answered any of her prayers. And they admired Kent sedulously from the windows. She was watching him intently. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. “There are policemen—and buses.
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