“I couldn’t help it. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport. The poor fellow's half smothered. ” “Hah!” He threw his head back. ” There was a moment’s silence. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth.
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