‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. 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 am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. Only think how compromising. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country.
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