He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. ” “Nothing that one wants. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”.
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