167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. 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. ’ ‘Who was to know if you would find your place?’ countered Martha. "Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert.
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