It’s these damned novels. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. I’ll drive you home once my buzz goes away. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. 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. There is the election——” He laughed derisively.
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