“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. "I am so excessively fond of snuff. ” For the moment her aunt could not think of any reply to this counterstroke, and Ann Veronica followed up her advantage by a sudden inquiry about her abandoned boots. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. You seem to want this chap out of Canton. ” “But your dinner!” she protested. " "I know you'll contradict it, Sir," said the widow, looking at Wood as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,—"I know you will.
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