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. “If I am to turn you into a vampire, she cannot know. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. . ’ ‘Do you care to test that theory?’ Gerald suggested easily.
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