" "I see. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ” She stopped abruptly, and turned about toward the front door. 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. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. “A man can smoke, a man can swear; A man scores always, everywhere.
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