“John?” He turned around in the recliner. “I wonder if there are any good women really. . 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. They had always gone without because of their secret lifestyle. Some day older people, perhaps, will trouble to understand younger people, and there won’t be these fierce disruptions; there won’t be barriers one must defy or perish. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. ” Her voice trembled with suppressed passion. Here one might live the life of golden days.
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