" "A white wall is a fool's paper, Jack,—remember that," rejoined Wood. Wild's dwelling without apprehension, or quitted it without satisfaction. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed. ‘One does not blow off the head of a man with whom one is in love, en effet.
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