Michelle’s eyes widened. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. She goes out and comes home. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. 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. That’s really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on.
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