Forgive me. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. Anna said nothing. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments.
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