She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. “For Heaven’s sake, no,” she answered quickly. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. Set the boy free. 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 was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.
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