"I've lost my wager. 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. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. A series of photographs were taken of them: her on the stairs, the couple of them on the stairs, the couple of them in the kitchen, him pinning a red rose corsage with great care and acute sexual frustration. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Michelle’s eyes were red and bloodshot. Spurlock stepped into the room. \"Ever thought about letting me do something with your hair?\" Not needing an answer, Shari got up and whipped out a vented brush from an overstuffed drawer. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. Her two new friends did their best to entertain her.
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