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. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist.
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