I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. I do not think that you will dare to marry anybody else. I kept watch over you, for fear of a surprise on the part of Jonathan. 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. Her tone was icy. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. The signs of the shops were carried to incredible distances.
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