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. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. But this only incensed the assailing party the more. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind.
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