Heard of your last escape. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. 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. The Burglary at Dollis Hill 249 III.
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