“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist.
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