‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. "I'm sorry," she said. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. “Not only that,” he answered. She stood without motion and without strength.
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