A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. ‘Jarvis Remenham was your mother’s father. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. ’ ‘That is what you think? Let us try!’ ‘Don’t be idiotic!’ She was backing from him, reaching through one of the slits she had carefully manufactured in her petticoat. The woman shrugged her shoulders.
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