Stephen merely looked dogged, reached for the fiddle and ran up and down the scale. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked. ‘I picked it up in a pawnshop near the Sally-Port. It cost twelve and six.’ ‘You were not cheated, my dear. I like its tone extremely – warm, mellow. You are a great judge of a fiddle, to be sure. Come, come, there is not a moment to lose; I make my rounds at seven bells. One, two, three,’ he cried, tapping his foot, and the cabin was filled with the opening movement of Boccherini’s Corelli sonata, a glorious texture of sound, the violin sending up brilliant jets through the
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