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. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. Many of the soldiers dismounted, and called for drink. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. It’s just upon my lunch-time. . My father's chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild.
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