So the talk went on. Wary they might be. The rest was easy. ‘I have Joan to tell me how much I look like Mary. 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. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair.
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