The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. I once saw a man die after collapsing that way. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. 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. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. Contests were held every year, the type of which depended on her caprice.
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