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She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. Her pulses began to race. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest.
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