Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it.
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