"They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. "I can't hold it much longer—it'll break my wrist. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. 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. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. I wouldn’t even have to use very much gasoline.
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