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. Was he your natural father? Did you know him?” “No, I didn’t. ” Annabel shook her head. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks.
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