I can keep you. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it. He nodded silently, too full for words. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. Get all ready for his reception.
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