And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. The splendid voices sang on from phase to phase of love’s unfolding, the ship drove across the sea to the beating rhythm of the rowers. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. He had chosen his time well. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that. I didn’t see everything last time. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game.
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