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. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. Something seemed awry. Then she saw him. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. "What's the matter?" he cried. He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her.
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