It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. The light would betray us. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. “For Heaven’s sake, Dunster, don’t let her out of the carriage, or hansom, or whatever she came in. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced.
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