F. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. 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. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. That is where I first knew him. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart.
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