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. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. A deadlock. She did not answer him, as she did not know what to say.
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