She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. 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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