I am carrying back a hundred new books and forty new records for the piano-player. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. "He seems infatuated about the lad," observed Wild. 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. You shall not take me alive. She used to play violin, you know.
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