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. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. She knew his appetite from many a homemade dinner and knew also that he had taken Bitch Vorsack’s comments to heart. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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