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. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. ” “Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. It seemed at first the most beautiful afternoon of all time to her, and perhaps the thrill of her excitement did add a distinctive and culminating keenness to the day.
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