But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. He had taken it back. She didn’t know anything more about your mom. 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.
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