“I have come for an explanation,” she said. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “Leave them!” He yelled. Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. " "Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry. “The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn’t go home to please her.
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