There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Mike sat down, his body too large for the petite blue couch. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble.
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