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Unformatted text preview: , just a little but it was OK. "If you say so, Uncle Michael," she whispered. "But I wish I had something to say about it." In Mary Beth's bed, in Deirdre's bed. She snuggled close, feeling the warmth of his hand now, lying idly on her breast. "Honey," he whispered. "What was that waltz? Was that Verdi? La Traviata? It sounded like it was but . . ." and then he was gone. She lay there smiling in the darkness. He'd heard it! He'd been there with her. She turned to him and kissed his cheek, carefully so he didn't waken, and then she slept against his chest, one arm slipped beneath his shirt against his warm skin. Three A DREARY endless winter rain poured down on San Francisco, gently flooding the steep-sloped streets of Nob Hill and veiling in mist its curious mixture of buildings-the gray ghostlike Gothic facade of Grace Cathedral, the heavy imposing stucco apartment houses, the lofty modern towers rising from the old structure of the Fairmont Hotel. The sky was da...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10