“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. ’ ‘Nonsense. To-morrow they will know the truth.
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