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. Besides, it was under false pretences. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen.
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