But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. 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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