Only I do not care to write about anything else. I don’t see what you can have to say. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher.
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