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 slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. ‘I can answer that. “You are beautiful, Lucy. On the orders of Mr Jarvis, that were. ” He awoke. ‘I do not believe you. “It’s his birthday.
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