She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. That is my way, my dear.
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