" "Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you," replied Wood. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.
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