‘Ah, grandpére. ” Lucy observed, watching her friend. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Those were dreams. You seem altogether altered, too. You get this queer irascible musician quite impossibly and unfortunately in love with a wealthy patroness, and then out of his brain comes THIS, a tapestry of glorious music, setting out love to lovers, lovers who love in spite of all that is wise and respectable and right. I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence.
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