Habits and tastes are no longer the same. ’ ‘The nuns?’ she said, gazing at him innocently. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. 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. But there was an abiding serpent in this Eden. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. Run away now, please. It was open. “Well?” she said.
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