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 one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. ’ Then she jammed her hat on her head all anyhow and ran from the room. She suspected that he would take a mistress just as soon as they returned to Florence. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground.
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