” He got up and went to the guest room door and locked it. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. 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 have an arthritic complaint, which is why you find me retired from fashionable life. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him.
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