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A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. ‘It does not seem to me that you can be an emissary for that pig. 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. ” Or someone, she thought with disgust. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine.
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