Don’t be late if you can help it. Wood. She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. 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. He laughed reassuringly. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes.
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