She agreed entirely with her brother. 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. He seated himself before it. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. I must have something in hand.
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