"Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. Don’t stand gawping, man. 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 is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. “It is unimportant,” she said.
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