“Forgive you, indeed. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. 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. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation.
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