Shelly Dunbar

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“I am sorry,” Carmencita said. “Your husband, will he teach your child to play?” “It is all he speaks about.” “Then you must have these.” He reached into the box and removed a set of strings, coiled together by a yellow band. They seemed brand new, almost shiny. “I could not,” she protested. “For your kindness.” “It is not nec—”
The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto
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