” “For my infertility. "I've said it," rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?” He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. "I alone am to blame. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The last piece was Scheherazade.
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