She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. " "I can't. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. You make yourself charming for help. "Where did you learn the song I heard just now?" he demanded, in an authoritative tone. ‘Why, that’s it. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. So was I, in fact. ” “Oh.
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