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 an hour passed before she laid aside the book. She had no idea what she should do. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. "I've obtained two packets, containing letters from Sir Rowland Trenchard, which I've no doubt will establish your title to the estates. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along. The sing-song girls in Hong-Kong are far handsomer.
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