I spoke a thought aloud. E. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. 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. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. If you could see how it gives them souls, women who have taken things for granted, who have given themselves up altogether to pettiness and vanity.
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