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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. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. He could not possibly lunge in the confined space, and so had nothing to do but back himself into the chapel as fast as he could. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game.
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This video was uploaded to adiszena.com on 11-05-2024 04:57:36
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