Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. "And equally easy to prove it," replied Jack, giving him the paper he had abstracted from Wild. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers.
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