He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. “Listen,” she said. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors.
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