The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. "When it thunders, the thief becomes honest," muttered Wood. 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. But I do not know you at all, in truth, and I do not understand why you do this. Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. ‘He don’t mean you no harm.
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