It would cover:
Aman set up a battered tape player and let the attic fill with sound. One by one, voices rose and fell — lovers pleading in orchestral sweeps, children’s choruses, a baritone rant about lost honor, a soprano that made the hairs on his arms stand at attention. With each song came its card: a name, a moment. As if each melody were a thread, the cards began to stitch together a life he’d only glimpsed in photographs.
I can write:
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