Mike seemed visibly happier at her remark. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. He only laughed his defiance. 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. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little.
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