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. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. “I wouldn’t make this objection,” Mr. In the beginning was afraid; but after the first several cases, I had only pity.
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