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 would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. “Please stop fighting me. ’ He glanced at Roding. Then came the cable that you were in Canton, ill, but not dangerously so. That would be him.
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