She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded.
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