He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. But that possibility had been anticipated.
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