The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. Such pretty manners, she thought. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. "Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount. " "Is she alive?" repeated the widow.
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