Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He could not possibly lunge in the confined space, and so had nothing to do but back himself into the chapel as fast as he could. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat.
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