Unformatted text preview: ay slowly through the shadowy room, and to the library. The music came strongly through the door, the happy song of Violetta from La Traviata. The waltz they'd played when Violetta was strong and gay, before she began to die so won- drously in operatic fashion. Light came from beneath the door, golden and soft. She sat on the floor, half risen more or less, resting back on her hands, naked as before, heFbreasts loose but high placed and the color of baby skin. The nipples the pink of baby's nipples. There was no music. Had it been some trick of noise? She was staring at the window to the cast-iron porch outside. And Michael saw that it was open. It was what they called a pocket window, and the sash had been thrown up all the way to make a doorway out of it. The shutters, which he had kept closed all the time himself, rather liking to see slats of afternoon sun, were open, too. A loud noise sounded in the street, but it was only a passing car, jetting too fast through the narrow shadowy intersection. She was startled; her hair was mussed, her face still smooth with lingering sleep. "What is thi...
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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