“Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. “Put her in the trunk. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. I had no idea you were not the happiest girl.
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