“Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. 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. At least here she was safe. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. “I feared we might have a fog.
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