Wood resounded from below. ‘Yes, miss. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. He picked up the remote and sat himself to her right. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. “Carolyn loves ‘Fiddler on the Roof. ” “Sure, anything you want.
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