” “Did any one see you leave the flat?” he asked. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. She winked at him as he shut the door. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. This is not true at all. It is like a second honeymoon. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite.
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