” She laid her hand softly upon his. 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. That is not reasonable. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes.
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