"All's over," muttered Jonathan. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I've got to know why. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. I keep on thinking of you. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. I do not care in the least. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. I shall find him yet. You say you need a man.
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