Sheppard, fervently. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. He moved slightly, and she went on, with a slight catching of her breath: “It’s a bother and disturbance, but you see—” She had to go through with it now, because she could think of nothing but her preconceived words. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. " "To-morrow will be too late," said Sheppard, moodily. Besides, she had admitted her identity. You ignore me! That’s not a good way to treat your only friend.
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