m. ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Meet me.
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