“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. \" Michelle's shoulders sank, feeling the weight of the pack. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. ’ She was seized by two strong hands and drawn close. "Your sympathy is being wasted. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask.
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