“I suppose you could at least tune it for us if you know how to play. Aliva's husband, who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them sword in hand. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed.
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