There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets.
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