It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. 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.
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