"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. 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. How Jack Sheppard broke out of the Cage at Willesden.
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