Here they remained till midnight when, calling for their reckoning and their steeds, they left the house. But, though the latter was somewhat embarrassed by his burthen, he peremptorily declined Jonathan's offer of assistance. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. Pity you aren’t under my command. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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