“Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. He dug about in his mind for a term to fit her, and he came upon the word new. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. “It was the night you left Paris. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously.
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