"Tonight," she sings, "tonight won't be like any night." And the audience, basking in reverie and a second brandy, believes her. Svelte in a glittering, hip-hugging gown, her generously exposed bosom gently heaving, she moves like a vision in a halo of amber light. "You'd be so nice to come home to," she purrs, and the menfolk are hooked. Now she is happy, now she is blue, and so, alternately, is the audience. They can hardly help it. It all seems so sincere, so spontaneous, so terribly special.
Except that it isn't. The...
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