"Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. 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. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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