Later, she would sew it on. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ‘She’s perfectly right. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. So there is no escape.
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