“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “Only—I have come face to face—with something terrible, and wholly unexpected trouble. It is the only way. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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