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Updated: May 13, 2025
She was glad that she could play it better than Mamma, and she hated herself for being glad. Mark stood by the piano and looked at her as she played. They talked under cover of the "Droom Droom Droom-era-room." "Mark, am I looking too awful?" "No. Pretty Minx. Very pretty Minx." "We mustn't, Mark. They'll hear us. They'll think us idiots." "I don't care if they do. Don't you wish they'd go?
Sometimes, when it was not Sunday, she played the Hungarian March, that went, with loud, noble noises: Droom Droom Droom-era-room Droom Droom Droom-era-room Droom rer-room-room droom-room-room Droom Droom Droom. It was wonderful. Mamma was wonderful. She swayed and bowed to the beat of the music, as if she shook it out of her body and not out of the piano.
The knocking of loose hammers on dead wires, the light, hacking clang of chords rolling like dead drum taps: Droom Droom, Droom-era-room. Alone in the dusk, Mamma was playing the Hungarian March, bowing and swaying as she played. When the door opened she started up, turning her back on the piano, frightened, like a child caught in a play it is ashamed of.
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