She still could not muster the strength to leave. 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. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling. " That was true, thought Spurlock. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. Suddenly she had become afraid.
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