‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. For on reaching the second floor, a swishing sound came to Gerald’s ears, as of someone moving about. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure. She shuddered. 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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