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She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care. Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. After these dinners they would have a walk, usually to the Thames Embankment to see the two sweeps of river on either side of Waterloo Bridge; and then they would part at Westminster Bridge, perhaps, and he would go on to Waterloo. The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else.
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