I have no intention of allowing you to depart in a hurry. 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. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly.
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