She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “Do you see what I was talking about, Strings?” No one is going to want to hear a note from you until you have tone like. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself. ‘Then he went stark staring crazy, if you ask me. ” She stopped. And with his clenched hand he struck him a violent blow in the face. She peered into the darkness. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. 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. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. For freedom at least.
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