She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. Playing became a way of escape.
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