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“I killed him. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. ‘If you had told him that I would rather die than see him, he would not have come. 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. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. "Ye-ah," said O'Higgins, jovially. It is no crime, none at all.
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