Wild is incapable of such baseness. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. 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. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard.
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