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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. He thanked God for this talent of his. ’ ‘And why are you not married,’ she demanded suddenly, ‘if it is that you have land?’ Gerald grimaced. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. . ‘You wish to tell me something? Parbleu, I have nearly forgot once more.
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