There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. The reddish-haired young man contributed allusions to the Hegelian philosophy that momentarily confused the discussion. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest.
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