He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe.
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