” “Yes, it is. 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. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. ‘You didn’t understand it any better than I. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough.
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