But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor.
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