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. Michelle had begged her to do it. She had been carrying them, he assumed, but then again the school had some particularly talented kids among the usual ruffians. An enormous Hand that rose up swiftly, blotting out the sky. . I am the richest man in the world. .
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