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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. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. They knew they were all Bogey in disguise. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. 1. I—listen.
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