The Canary's Song
I. The typewriter in my room at the Ritz sounded like gunfire. Every keystroke was a small violence, a percussive punctuation against the silence that Jon preferred. He had bought me the typewriter—a Royal, black and gleaming—along with the room, along with everything else. It was, he believed, a gift that acknowledged my nature as a writer. In practice, it was a reminder that even my writing...
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