A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. 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. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. You see, I’m selfish. Then her eyes flashed. We’re the hysterical animal, Mr. "Where did you pick it up?" "I believe I told you; at Yale.
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