Still, I'm glad she didn't accept my invitation to join us. 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. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. I dined with a friend and went to the ‘Unusual. ‘And so?’ she asked. There was still in his heart that fierce anger which demands physical expression; but he had to consider Ruth in all phases.
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