"What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. In an instant, she turned on him. She did not speak to John in the week of school left after the Prom. "I was merely about to observe that I am in possession of her secret. Is there anything you'd like?" "Books. "Was that thunder?" he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He seemed too noisy.
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