You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. 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. And later they paddled in a boat above the mysterious deeps of the See, and peered down into the green-blues and the blue-greens together. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee.
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