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. A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the peals of merriment, and other noises, that, ever and anon, resounded from within, that this chamber was occupied by the Marquis and his friends. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. She came very near that night to resolving that she would return to her home next morning. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. .
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