“I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. But for perfect satisfaction, he must take a peek into the bedroom. 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. CHAPTER XXIII.
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