She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. Even the stars were strangers. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. ‘I think it is better if I hold the pistol.
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