You see—I didn’t understand. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. I’ll get in trouble. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. 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. To appreciate it you should try rooms. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done.
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