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. I want to boast myself. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier.
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