She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She cried and sobbed in fits. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. She was beautiful once, Lucia.
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