She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. Montressor’s guests were. My motive in coming hither is to serve you, and save your life. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Stay! I'll go myself. .
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