“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. It is bad policy. But think of the disillusionment! Except for our sex we have minds like men, desires like men. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. “I am staying at the Savoy. This discovery made, I hastened back to London to offer you my hand, but found you had married in the mean time a smock-faced, smooth-tongued carpenter named Sheppard. I'm always agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse into my hand. "You are all right?"—anxiously.
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