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. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. ‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him. If you assume the character of a debtor for your own convenience, you must be content to maintain it for ours.
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