Some relative had given Gerallt a musical box. It was a metal object, about the size and shape of a tobacco tin, with a cranked handle. When this handle was turned a plectrum moved over a series of pins, which gave out different notes. The last two pins in the series were broken and the tune was forever incomplete. It was a tune something like Barbara Allen; one was left poised in the air, waiting for the notes that would resolve it all, and they never came. The beastly thing started again, and unless I paid attention my mind would follow unconsciously and there I would be, hung up, waiting
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