She pulled a few strands of her hair from her head to leave with Michelle’s. "Quick. 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. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.
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