At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. 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. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine.
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