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. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. My son went down after his death. Wild's busy. Leaning upon a gate he looked down into the valley. \"I'd like some popcorn.
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