She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. 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. Her answer was not quite ready. " "Not quite, I hope," rejoined Sheppard. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run.
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