CHAPTER XIII. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. Happy to do anything in my power. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song.
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