He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. A sudden knock at the door startled her. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. He filled his pipe slowly. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday.
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