Of the other two, one it seemed must be their
daughter, a girl of seventeen, not good-looking really, but dressed and
turned out with a scrupulous care, which in those sordid and mean
surroundings lent her good looks. The care, indeed, with which she was
dressed assured me she was their daughter, and to tell the truth, I was
rather touched by the thought that the father and mother would go in
rags so that she at all costs might be trim. A clean ribbon bound back
her hair, an untorn frock of some white stuff clothed her tidily; even
her shoes were neat. The fourth was a young man; he was seated in the
window, with his back towards me, bending over his zither. But I could
see that he wore a beard. When I came up the old man was playing the
violin, though playing is not indeed the word. The noise he made was
more like the squeaking of a pencil on a slate; it set one's teeth on
edge; the violin itself seemed to squeal with pain. And while he
fiddled, and the young man hammered at his zither, the old woman and
girl slowly revolved in a waltz. It may sound comic to hear about, but
if you could have seen! ... It fairly plucked at one's heart. I do not
think that I have ever in my life witnessed anything quite so sad.
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