The cellar smelled of wine and old stone, and somewhere in that darkness, Jack Morrissey heard music
The cellar smelled of wine and old stone, and somewhere in that darkness, Jack Morrissey heard music. Not the brassy, syncopated jazz that drifted down from Montmartre's cafés above, but something quieter—something that sounded like hands working wood with infinite care. He should not have been there. American journalists in 1925 Paris had better things to do than explore abandoned wine cellars...
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