Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. There's our young friend upstairs. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. 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. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. ” Missy grunted in neither Lucy’s nor Michelle’s direction. .
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