“That’s exhilarating,” said Ann Veronica. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. 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 a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. I keep my finger on the pulse of things.
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