‘Ah, Madame Joan. 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 do—with all my heart. I’d only have to do something about it, and that I can’t. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. “Never was such an age of transition. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans.
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