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. "But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. " "I should like to satisfy myself on that score," rejoined Wild, drily. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his.
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