Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. 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. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. "There's no outlet that way. " Trenchard, meanwhile, whose gaze was fixed upon the boy, became livid as death, but he moved not a muscle. " "Devil!" muttered Jack, again grasping his pistol. And when Manning was not about the thing seemed simple enough.
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