“NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. She whipped round suddenly, and discovered the woman wedged into the corner by the window, keeping out of the way. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by. 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.
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