A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. “It’s a matter of feeling with me. 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. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon.
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