Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. "Where are the boys?" "In the hall. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights.
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