Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. The doctor would never betray him. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man.
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