Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. 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. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. Ennison. Beauty has bloomed and faded.
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