All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. 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. When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. "Safe inside," replied the chairman, wiping the heat from his brow; "we've run all the way.
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