She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless.
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