Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure. “What has she told you?” “Everything. 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. ’ ‘So that was it. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper.
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