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. No tricks would serve. “Why do you need to go for a walk, Michelle?” Diane asked darkly. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.
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