"The geisha and the sing-song girl are professional entertainers. You DO understand?” “Who cares for most people?” she said, not looking at him. 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. Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. “Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss. It was years before your time.
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