In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. 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. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. "And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?" remarked Hogarth.
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