There was no one to be seen in the great hall. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. 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 fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely.
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