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One September evening in 1887, Arthur Schnitzler, a young doctor with literary aspirations, was out walking with a friend on the Ringstrasse, the grand new boulevard encircling the old city of Vienna. A pretty young woman caught his eye, and Schnitzler suggested that they all go back to his place, where he kept a bottle of cognac handy for just this sort of occasion. Jeanette Heger was twenty-two and made a living doing needlework in a modest apartment she shared with her sisters. The next afternoon, she visited alone. She found the doctor playing the piano and sat down at his feet. Her presence made it hard to use the pedals but easy for him to move his fingers from the ...