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. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. E. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. .
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