“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. \" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel. ‘She knows what she’s up against. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. On that basis alone, he had no right to give or accept love. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words.
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