The Ghost Piano on the Left Bank
I Paris in the winter of 1925 was grey in a way I had never experienced before. Chicago grey is honest—it tells you what it is. Paris grey is deceptive, as though the sky itself were trying to convince you that the city was more beautiful than it actually was. I was twenty-six, living in a garret apartment above a bookshop in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. My name is Clara Donovan, and I came to Paris...
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