Mrs Beattie scowled. Mr Wynn had lived in the rooms below for years. He paid his rent on time and extra to eat his dinner in the kitchen. Mrs Beattie would not want to offend him. ‘S’pose I can speak to someone about it. ’Tain’t my fault,’ she repeated, and stumped off, banging the door behind her.
* * *
When the bells of St Clement’s struck eleven the world still wept and a bitter wind whipped through every crack it could find and drove the rain ruthlessly against the window. There was no point going out, she told herself. She’d be lucky to earn a penny. No one would want to pause to listen to a fiddle in this weather, even if she could find a sheltered spot where her violin and bow would not be ruined.
Three shillings...
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