“It is just a look. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. “Compromise—and kindness. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. But heavens, I must pack!” She sprang to her feet and disappeared in the room beyond, from which she emerged a few minutes later with flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. \"Josh Durkin?\" Lucy whispered loudly.
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