Griffin. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. For I still love her mother. .
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