She'd met lots of crazy musicians, but no one like Clayton. He was as obsessed as the others,but he had a quirky sense of humor, a slow ironic counterpoint to his own beliefs. And he didn't look quite like anyone else. He wore his hair parted erously near the middle and combed it in little ripples, though sometimes he let it fly up a bit at the ends. She was reading one afternoon outside the Fine Arts Building when the day suddenly turned cold. If she went back to the dorm for a sweater, she'd be late for orchestra rehearsal. So she stuck it out until a few minutes before rehearsal at four. By that time , her fingers were so stiff she had to run them under hot water to loosen them up. Then she hurried to cell( 大提琴 )room where all the instruments were lined up. Virginia grabbed her cello and was halfway down the hall when she realized shed forgotten to leave her books behind. She decided against turning back and continued to the basement. Clayton was stuffing his books into his locker. "Hey, Clayton, how's it going? As if it were routine, he took her books and put them in next to his. They started toward the orchestra hall. Virginia cast a stealthy glance upward; five minutes to four or not, Clayton was not rushing. His long, gangling frame seemed to be held together by molasses ( 糖蜜 ); he moved deliberately, negotiating the crush while humming a tricky passage from Schumann, sailing above mob. After rehearsal she reminded him that her books were in his locker. "I think I'll go practice, "he said. "Would you like to listen? " "I'll miss dinner, "she replied, and was about to curse herself for her honesty when he said, I have cheese and soup back at the house, if you don't mind the walk." The walk was 20 minutes of agonizing bliss, with the wind off the lake whipping her blue.When they reached the house, a brick building with a crumbling porch and weeds cracking the front path, she was nearly frozen through. He heated up a can of soup, and plunked the cheese down in the center of the table. "It's not much, "he apologized, but she felt contented. The house had a musty tennis-shoes-and-ripe-laundry smell Books and jackets were strewn everywhere, dishes piled in the sink. "When did you begin playing? "she asked. "I began late, I'm afraid, " Clayton replied. "Ninth grade. But I felt at home immediately. With the music. I mean. The instrument took a little longer. Everyone said I was too tall to be a cellist."He grimaced. Virginia watched him as he talked. He was the same golden brown as the instrument, and his mustache followed the lines of the cellos scroll. "So what did you do? " "she asked. "Whenever my height came up, I would say, ' Remember the bumblebee( 大黄蜂 ).'” "What do bumblebees have to do with cellos? "The bumblebee, aerodynamically speaking, is too large for flight. But the bee has never heard of aerodynamics, so it flies in spite of the laws of gravity, I merely wrapped my legs and arms around the cello and kept playing." Music was the only landscape in which he seemed at ease. In that raunchy kitchen, elbows propped on either side of the cooling soup, he was restless, even a little awkward. But when he sat up behind his instrument, he had the irresistible beauty of someone who had found his place. 1). The passage can best be described as ________.