Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. You have neither reason nor logic. 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. Daughters were not like sons. The last piece was Scheherazade. We'll get those books into your room first. What would you? I cannot fight them all.
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