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. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person.
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