Tired pianists who have practiced all day until their fingers are fagots of bruised nerves and the sound of their instrument echoes as hollowly to their ears as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal, dream, when asleep, of the perfect piano. They seat themselves before a suave and sable instrument that is pliant to their will as none that mortal hands have ever fingered; it speaks for them with a mighty organ voice; notes, at the command of their subconscious will, sing with the pomp of trumpets or the tenderness of fiddles,...
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