It cost her seventy-seven dollars. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Another picture slid across her vision. “I thought you weren’t keeping up to the mark. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor.
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