E. Ramage. “Forgive me,” he said. ” “Do you still love him?” “Just the opposite. 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. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. He had, for the most part, been correct. There is worse to come. You did not see me, I know.
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