John McCormick’s voice rings out richly, marred only by a periodic scratch.
“When-n-n the dawwwn
Flames innnn the skyeeeeee
I—uh—love—uh youuuuuu:
Whennnn the birrrrdlings wake and cryeeeee
I—uh—love—uh yououuuuooooo.”
“Isn’t that lovely?” she says, raptly. “I always loved that song. Music always GETS me somehow. Let’s play it again.”
“Wait a minute,” you say. “I have something else.” The sweet strains of Liebestraum make the air sticky, and her ready laughter is stilled in reverence.
Say, “I don’t know if you’ll like this one or not. It’s a long one.”
She sits down on the divan. “Sure. Go ahead. What is it? I don’t remember any of them.”