John Sheppard. Leastways, not on your own. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. She had begun alone. 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.
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