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. Then came the great day. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. “What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the glow. ‘I understand you have not been in England very long,’ he said in English, noting that Madame raised her fan and lowered her gaze demurely.
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