Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. And with a hideous expression of pain, he fainted. 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 wish you good luck,” she answered. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks.
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