Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. My death, probably. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. I know faces. The tears flowed faster. I don’t defend it.
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