As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen. 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. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. How long has Miss Charvill been in England?’ ‘Not long, sir.
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