‘But this is altogether a chance of the luckiest. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Totally disregarding the pain, he picked up the nail, and reserved it for future use. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. 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. ‘Yes, that is reasonable.
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