The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. And all the third act is love-sick music.
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