‘Precisely. 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. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. The manager, however, who stood in the wings, nodded to her to proceed, and the orchestra commenced the first few bars of the music. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted.
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