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. The impassivity of her features changed at last. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. And if he would, I would not subject him to the annoyance. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday.
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