Fifty in advance. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. 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. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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