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. "What does he say?" roared the long drover. "Constance is yet living. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind.
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