"Tush!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, angrily. "Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Marvel.
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