You shall know the truth. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. “It’s his birthday. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. 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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