“I told you I did not love you. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. 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. It's only a gentleman come to offer you his hand. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her.
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