He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue.
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