“But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. 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. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years.
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