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Vee’s all right. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. 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. “I want my life to be beaten gold just in order to make it a fitting setting for yours. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter.
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