Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Lucy ate without passion. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. She held out the foil.
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