And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. 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. He noted the strong white teeth as they snipped the thread. I must leave England to-night.
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