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. ‘Go then. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. Whence had she come: whither was she bound? A temporary congestion in the street held up the caravan for a spell; and Ah Cum looked backward to note if any of the party had become separated. Loving was better than that. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. ’ ‘We are not all of us so empty-headed, Melusine,’ pleaded Miss Froxfield.
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