He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan. Even the chattering monkeys, parrots, and parrakeets departed the fruit groves for the smelly dark of the jungle. Take care he don't see you,—and bring me word where he goes, and what he does. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees.
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