Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. 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. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. Still, there certainly was something in the idea of a treaty. ‘So it would appear.
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