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He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. He was in the house with his mother. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. 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 have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.
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This video was uploaded to choigaigoi.net on 09-06-2024 10:12:59
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