The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. 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. Mr. Mr. ’ Ignoring this, the major slipped his hands about her waist and lifted her to her feet.
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