"Very well," said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, "very well. “I’m so glad my Mom’s letting me go out tonight. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. He’s got flowers. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. ‘What is it that you told him?’ ‘Nothing, miss, I swear. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had.
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