She made an abrupt personal appeal. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. 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. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it.
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