I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name.
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