" "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. " "Propose it," returned Blueskin, inclining his head. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. 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.
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