Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy.
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