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76 Apology to the Reader I had held some conceit that my fancies today might be of value, or that a sinewy anecdote might slick its hair back for the camera. Then there was that moment, napping on the bus, not even a finger looped through my bag, when I thought we would be magnificent after I finally wheezed down the steps, showered, and raised my hands like a maestro above the first quivering crescendo of phrases. But no, my head is pea soup on a night when no idea of sense would tiptoe forth even with trench coat and spoon. A thickness not unpleasant, nor, admittedly, uncommon, but I know you had hoped for so much more, a bravura performance of oboe and strings, G Major, or at least to be delivered home safely in this kind of weather. ...

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