The young man did not know what he was doing or where he was. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. Now go. ’ For a moment he looked daunted. ” She said. A few more minutes, and she was safe. . She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there.
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