Some said that it was haunted by those days, by that history, certainly not always so pleasant. They’d finally gotten their home in the French Quarter, with its subtle and underlying hint of strange days gone by. Beneath it-drifting in from the open French doors that led to the courtyard of the beautiful home-was the sweet scent of the magnolia trees that grew against the rear wall. She breathed in the smell of pine cleaner, which they had been using on the house. The distant noise of the mule-driven carriages that took tourists around the historic French Quarter. The deep, sad heartbeat of the saxophone. The sound of musicians down the street, and the spattering of applause that followed their jazz numbers. Waking, not opening her eyes, she listened to what was real. The word, the whisper, was something she had conjured in her mind she had been so desperate to hear it spoken again. Sheer exhaustion had finally allowed her to drift off to sleep. Sheer exhaustion from the work she engaged in at the house on Dauphine Street.
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