He was perhaps forty-five years of age. 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. ‘And I don’t mind telling you it goes agin’ the grain with me to let you go free and all, missie. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away.
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