“What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. Anna was singing as she used to sing. Ever hear of the djinn in the bottle? Like enough. 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. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility.
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