When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. 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. “Stop it!. Don't ask any more questions. Softly she rose to her feet.
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