’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. I don’t love you. . . 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 saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled.
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