The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are.
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