"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. He thanked God for this talent of his. " "You read those yarns?" Spurlock's head came about, and there was eagerness in his eyes. 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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