Part 2 She found the younger generation of the Widgetts engaged in languid reminiscences, and all, as they expressed it, a “bit decayed. We'll have him yet. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. . Earles’ office, “was your last resource. 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. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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