27 Her beloved mother Marina was the first in the house to catch it, the first to die. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling.
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