Her aunt went off at a tangent. That’s about the beginning. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. 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. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand.
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