She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. . . "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. Another day of nonsuccess would mean many disagreeable things. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs.
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