. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. 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. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. ‘To go to these Charvill, it was not in my plot. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers.
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