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. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. She further suspected that he might find a servant to dally with in the meantime, if he had not already. I beg that you will consider me your friend.
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