My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style. She was perplexed by this, and stood for some seconds in the empty street hesitating, until the appearance of another circumspect woman under the street lamp at the corner reassured her. She made an abrupt personal appeal. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe.
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