” It was, Ann Veronica felt, at once absurd and extraordinarily right. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. 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 on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition.
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