Jonathan threw open the street-door. Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more. He began shoveling dirt over the bodies. His literary instincts were reviving. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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