In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. About two weeks ago. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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