He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. The latch came with a weak click. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ” “We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice. Drummond nodded.
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