Chapter VII MISS PELLISSIER’S SUSPICIONS “Anna!” Anna kissed her sister and nodded to her aunt. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. . ’ Ignoring this, the major slipped his hands about her waist and lifted her to her feet. He was evidently nervous, and very anxious to be impressive; his projecting eyes sought to dominate. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd.
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