” She raked into the fire with the poker. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. ” There was genuine interest in her eyes now. ” He said happily. 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. She put her hand in his to be squeezed.
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