She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. Maggot.
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