Solomon scowled in Skulduggery's direction, able to pinpoint him a little better than most owing to the size and shape of the ripples he cast against everyone else's souls. Skulduggery was dead; he had a little more shape.

"I don't play for the lyrics," he grumbled, "I play for the sound. You think you're tired of Shakespeare? Try having a half-dozen different version of him you're told are the epitome of violin music."