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What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Has he not himself taken my daggers and my pistol and my knife? Alors, he has given me back my pistol and one dagger,’ she conceded conscientiously, ‘which is a very good thing.
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