With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. Melusine’s eyes blazed into his. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. ‘Well said, my dear. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk.
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