Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. Woof! What a dog.
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