A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. This she put into the trunk. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. Don't build your hopes too high; but I will do what I can. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day.
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