He never finished his sentence. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. At last she was roused. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests.
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