“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. The body of Sir Rowland was then laid on the large table. When she awoke, her husband held her hand as 31 Sebastianus urged her to drink weak wine. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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