All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. CHAPTER XXIX. 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.
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