" Is that Rococo, Pascal?” Chrissie said as she stood by the missus’s desk, peering into the nests of pigeonholes and cubbies. “Oh, don’t touch there or you’ll be shot,” Pascal said, because it was where the missus kept her souvenirs, love letters from men before him, locks of hair, dried shamrock, and the words of songs that she rehearsed for her parties. Her family was musical, "
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