He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. It was in this state that Mark McCloskey caught 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. ’ All at once Mrs Sindlesham looked across at him, a sharp question in her eyes.
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