“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. ” “What did you say?” “I said, ‘My dear Veronica! how can you think of such things?’” “And then?” “She had two more cups of tea and some cake, and told me of her walk. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time.
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