Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. ‘Jacques?’ ‘No. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “Why do you kill me?” Michelle asked.
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