She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear. I do not wish to return to Paris. 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. And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity.
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