And there was Midge or Madge or Mildred at the pipe organ—her back to the congregation—her upper body swaying ever-so-slightly to music composed four hundred years prior.
Julian noted how she lifted and dropped her shoulders, how she tilted her head back whenever the melody was allowed to run free, as if Midge or Madge or Mildred herself were the runner, the little girl in yonder meadow.
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