“I suppose I shall have to write an answer. ” “You what?” she repeated incredulously. It needs cultivating, I think. 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. Gives you a right to hang on to the old man until he busts—practically. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street.
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