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. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet.
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