It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. Then he understood. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. \"I'll have to ask Cathy, you know my foster mother? I have not been asked on a date before.
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