You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. " "And you expect me to believe you after what has passed?" "I do; and, more than that, I expect you to thank me. 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. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own.
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