’ Her flesh crept. Beauty has bloomed and faded. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. 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. ‘It is, you understand, that Monsieur Charvill did not—how do you say in English?—having an eye to an eye—’ ‘Didn’t see eye to eye with the Vicomte Valade? That I can well believe. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't.
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