He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. Me, you may have. Besides, those things are deadly. 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. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance.
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