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. I don’t think that the rest of the people here like us very well, do they, Arthur, so we’re obliged to be friends. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face. He continued thoughtfully.
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