| At precisely 6:30 on that really big night, Samantha Hill, unable to think straight, took the Number 3 bus from Queen Anne to the Morris Theatre. She had no reason to arrive early, nothing to do for at least another hour. She'd have been better off biting her nails in isolation. Something feral had pushed her into the long dress bought for the occasion, an exterior of fashionable silk rolled over an interior of bound cotton. No syncophany or harmony. She was clutching at swiglets. Love or lose, girl, so choose. Read on |
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