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All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. “If I were to marry now,” she said, “it would be with a sense of humiliation. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness.
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