“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. ‘Why do you stand there? Take him up, and bring him out at once. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!.
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