One has to train one’s self not to. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. . It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer.
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