“It—it—must come,” she faltered. That window there…. It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation. 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. ’ ‘Undoubtedly,’ Gerald agreed. That paper must be signed, or I take my departure.
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