Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. His father and mother were a lawyer and a doctor, respectively.
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