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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. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man. Gerald would certainly have demanded back his sword. "I've done all I can to the portrait here. “You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet.
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