“Sooner or later, John, it will come to that. As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you. 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. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. ‘Good.
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