But all of that was forgotten. 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. It seemed to encapsulate the mosquito like a little piece of moonlight, it was talismanic to her. She knew she was pregnant when she missed her period in the first weeks of August that year. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset.
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