’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed deeply. C below. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one.
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