“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “I might have muddled for a time. My death, probably. If not, I have plenty to think about,” she answered, leaning back in her chair, and watching the smoke from her own cigarette curl upwards. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz.
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