"Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. But that title he would not endure. ” “Then perhaps,” she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, “perhaps I really do not care. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I’m not to study, I’m not to grow.
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