Isolde : I sit admiring his hands. I go funny all over when I watch that hand twiddling the strings. And in a trice I'm sitting where the cello was.
Cornelius : It's not possible.
Isolde : He has such wonderful fingering. Isn't that what it's called?
Isolde : He calls me his gamba, his little lap viol.
Isolde : So like him, yet so unlike...
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