“This girl—she’s really a very charming, frank person—had had her imagination fired, so she told me, by a school performance of Romeo and Juliet. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. " "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black. “Does he live here?” he asked her presently. Wild's name. Her voice recalled him. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it.
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