She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. ‘You have every right to be angry with me. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. The girl only smiled at him serenely, but she laid her hand for a moment quietly upon his. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. 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.
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