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You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. ’ Kimble frowned direfully, staring at the weapon with its gold hilt and decorative pattern down the blade. The danger you put yourself in by remaining here astounds me. This extraordinary child had opened up an old channel through which it was no longer safe to cruise. 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. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities.
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