He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. It was bleeding again. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. You never saw him before yesterday.
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