“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance.
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