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‘Bête,’ she flung at him. ” “But I’m quite equal to taking care of myself, aunt. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. F. 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.
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