Murder had become nothing to her. 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. Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. The future? He dared not speculate upon that.
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