” “Yes,” said his prospective fellow-sailor, “that’s very pretty. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. 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 found that the skiff had been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge.
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