Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. “Mere sensuality. ‘That is the man who tries to kill me, but he wounded instead my servant. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. Still, it was rather terrible to suspect that one had fallen from grace, but nevertheless the thing was possible. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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