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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. “You will go and see her,” he begged. Age is set, impervious to innovations. Sleep did not come easily, but eventually her mind stopped its chattering and she fell into a deep slumber. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. She is chosen to learn magic. Her two new friends did their best to entertain her. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut. “Look here,” he said, “I brought you here to make love to you.
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