The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Fortescue in the drawing-room, and actually shake hands with him in an entirely hopeless manner and hope everything would turn out for the best. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII. "Now—begin.
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