“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. But the twins were so fucked over at that point they were zombies. "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. I just thought perhaps a different boy was in store for you. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there. There’s no logic in these things.
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