One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips.
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