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. His course, however, was no longer interrupted, and he crept on. Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters.
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