” He sat down on her left side and put his hand on her knee, gesturing with his other hand. 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. She has already forgotten it. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. His eyes were red.
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