There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. "Some dreadful deed is about to be committed, which I may perhaps prevent," muttered Jack to himself. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. She felt sickeningly empty. "Is there anything wrong with it?" "Wrong? Why, you have been imposed upon somewhere.
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