Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. “I must read him when I come out. "He must have gone this way," muttered Blueskin. ‘What else do you expect? It’s the penalty you pay for marrying an Englishman.
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