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36 X. Perspectives The tour bunny—“Who here’s a music whiz?”— recites the script she memorized last spring; all ears, the parents prod. “You are… He is!” “You are,” she echoes, coy decoy, her plan to lead the pack right past the fine-arts wing and flooded dorm (warped desks, procrustean twin bunks in heaps)—eyesores would contradict Endowment. Cutting edge. Top-ranked. Handpicked. “Ahead…” An aimless fanfare, au trompette, deadens her pitch. “…some dogwoods. To your right, one of the founding deans posed with his pet bloodhound.” As more horns blare, a tough routine, she stops to rub its muzzle. “On this site they dedicated…” Sights set high, the dean extends a stone arm toward the greater quarry of his eponymous conservatory. ...

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