The Mysterious Gift of a Voice, Here and Then Gone by CRAIG WOLFF

IN the uneasy passing of her childhood hour, Julie Andrews loved to watch her mother practice the piano. Her mother's playing had both a vigor to it, and grace. She could play hell-bent, the vaudevillian that she was, or she could play slow, and over her face would visit a stray look of sadness, something blowing past. She would begin to sing.

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