After all, old P. You are wrong even about that man’s scientific position and his standard of work. There is a railroad. 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. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. We have a great deal to discuss, you and I. I have—run away.
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