She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the windows of the lofty houses. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. Accordingly, having given Wood such directions as he thought necessary for his guidance, and received a handsome gratuity in return for his services, he departed. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected.
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