Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. 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. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis.
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