"Hear me out," said Jonathan. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. The unequal battle went on. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife. "I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile.
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