“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. It is not at all comme il faut. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment.
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