There was no one to be seen in the great hall. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. There was—a service. Spurlock grew cold. We have to hang about in the interval. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable.
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