“Cheveney!” she repeated. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. God must love me, for he has guided me here. Indeed, he told me nothing at all. She had to have him, her body was going crazy for the want of sex. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled. She had better escape if she can. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. He rested on one elbow.
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