In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “You would be wise to loosen your purse-strings, Gianfrancesco. . ” He pushed her a dozen yards along the greasy pavement with flat, well-trained hands that there seemed to be no opposing. You never can go back. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. I had no idea even that she was a friend of yours. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. He hated the taste of it. He hesitated for a moment and then he followed her. ‘Playing games to tease me, that’s all he can think of doing. ’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. Dump popped his head into the cage.
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