Kneebone, who was on the point of departing. 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. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness.
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