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. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. “You are beautiful, Lucy. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do.
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