Unformatted text preview: eat seemed to curl and breathe around her, to tap on her forehead with fingers. She picked up her bow of ribbon, and pinned it in place on the back of her head. She could just see two little bits of it sticking up. Like devil's horns. "Oncle Julien, the hour has come," she whispered, shutting her eyes tight. "Give me a clue. Where do I look for the Victrola?" She rocked from side to side, Ray Charles style, trying to recapture one vivid moment from all those ever fading dreams. A thin distant sound came to her, under the gentle roar of the gas heater, a song she could barely hear. Violins? Too thin a sound to tell what the instruments were, except there were many, and it was ... it was . . . She opened the bathroom door. Far far away, but it was the waltz from La Traviata playing. It was . . . the soprano singing. She started to hum it, irresistibly, but then she couldn't hear it! My God, what if the Victrola was down there in the living room! She padded barefoot, towel over her shoulders like a shawl, into the hallway and peered down over the balusters. Very distinctly came the song of the waltz, louder than it had ever been in her dreams. The woman sang gaily in Italian, and now came the chorus behind her, sounding on th...
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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