"I hope you don't imagine anything has gone wrong, Sir. I heard only after it was all over. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends. 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. ‘Burned them, one by one, right before that fellow’s eyes.
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