His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. There’s no logic in these things. "They tell me over here that the average Chinaman is honest. ’ ‘Truly?’ asked Melusine, warmth lighting her bosom. "But don't ever let me see them again. ’ ‘Aye, sir,’ Kimble said at once, and took up his stance at the bottom of the stairs as Gerald dragged Melusine up them.
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