"That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. He, however, made no remark at the time, but instantly prepared to set out. 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. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above.
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