“All right?” he asked. Wood's. The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. 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. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs.
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