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 leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. I never made any effort to touch them; so by and by they learned to light fearlessly on my arms and shoulders. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish.
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