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Priscila’s sirenic air reverberated from stone to stone throughout the yard, breathtaking to her spectators.
She’d finally ripped the sleeves away from her ivory gown to simulate the slinky dress of a lounge singer. To think, if their 1952 Ford had never smashed into a tree, Johnny would still be undermining her musical aspirations.
Spellbound, Eleanor vowed she’d arabesque on that stage. Tuberculosis would seem like a figment of history.
The flame of dawn peaked above the cemetery gate. Dozens of friends bid each other good-morning, descending into their mausoleums, anticipating next Saturday’s rendezvous of long-desired dreams come alive.
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