Some day I may forgive you; but not now. 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. Observing Spurlock's spellbound attitude, he clapped the boy on the shoulder. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other.
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