" "Take hence this boy, then," rejoined Trenchard; "his looks unman me. We can’t even protect them from themselves. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. 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. ’ ‘But Marthe, this is idiot. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. That's the way she strikes me.
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