‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. 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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