Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. She turned her head away sharply. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered.
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