Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. 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.
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