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 was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. All other things were without weight or consequence before the fact that this poor young man would have to depend upon her for his life.
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