You have nothing more to fear from Wild. No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. Spurling, squeezing Jack's arm, and pushing him towards the door, "and, don't come here again. 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. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals.
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