That he should pay forty pounds to help this girl who preferred another man was no less in his eyes than a fraud and mockery that made her denial a maddening and outrageous disgrace to him. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. 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. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. “This means a plunge.
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