There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. "Come Bess,—no whimpering. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance.
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