She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Kneebone nodded. You are going to be generous and forgive. She had discussed the general question of supplies with the helpful landlady. The Master of the Mint.
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