shane bolitho

Little Neet ran splashing through the mud and puddles back towards the unfussy, orderly clapboard houses, her little coat flaring out at her sides as she went. I could hear faint music from somewhere, but couldn’t quite make out the song. Was it Eddy Duchin? Could I hear a voice singing? Or was it Benny Goodman? Something lazy, whatever it was. Romantic, piano and horns. But what? I couldn’t pick it. The sky didn’t have any ideas, so I looked around the yard instead.
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