Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. Sheppard," said Wood, glancing round the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame. “The sooner you tell me the better. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion.
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