At last—I told a story. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. You shall have a house out at Balham or Sydenham, and two servants. He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another. Some of my schemes are already in hand.
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