Luke Halloran loved that fiddle like a child. Again the idea came to her that this was not Halloran, that Halloran had died and this was somebody else. But that was insane, obviously. Far more likely that the weeks of illness had changed him in some way. Or perhaps he’d always been this way, and the illness had obscured it. When she had imagined the journey, she had imagined hardship, and hunger, and dirt that clung everywhere, like another skin, and could never be sloughed off. But she hadn’t imagined this—the people, that she would be surrounded by so many other people, unable to escape
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