"Kingfisher feathers," said Ah Cum. 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. His statement was treated with derision. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. I was his wife. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. I met a Hindu a few weeks ago who was a Harvard man.
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