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. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. I must leave England to-night. “Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate.
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