“Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. That glove is still preserved. 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. This won’t do. ‘No, I don’t see much future in pursuing her down this passage.
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