“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. When I told them I was going to your house today, my dad told me to either ask for lessons or bring my violin to give to you permanently since I was not ever going to use it. Get nothing out of me. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. He turned, and beheld Winifred.
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