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. Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. Spurling had retired for the night. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. "Not my king's," returned Wood.
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