He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. . ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. YOU did. 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 are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting.
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