When he’s found out where she’s staying, I’ll have him keep an eye on Valade’s residence in Paddington, I think. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. 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. "Relating to the father of the boy—Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan.
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