I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. “I suppose he’s frightfully clever,” said Miss Klegg. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened.
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