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. “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. It is so that I may marry an Englishman. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed.
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