“I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Having worked thus for another quarter of an hour without being sensible of fatigue, though he was half stifled by the clouds of dust which his exertions raised, he had made a hole about three feet wide, and six high, and uncovered the iron bar.
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