He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. 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. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper.
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