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. ‘Eh bien, Eugénie. I killed him, Nigel. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. . ’ She pronounced it with a French inflexion, but Gerald understood her to mean the English name he knew.
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