He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. 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. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. "I am come to render you a service.
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