I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. “It is just a look. Only au revoir. gutenberg. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. 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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