" Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. 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. I was the last on board. E. I sha'n't cry any more. .
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