Lucy stood in front of the piano. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. . Stanley changed his key. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “Pray accept my apologies.
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