This was the worst summer that I ever had in my life, Europe and all, and I can’t tell you how many times I drove by that Violin Camp hoping to catch a look at you, praying that there wasn’t some horny violin guy waiting to ask you out. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “Been and married?.
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