The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. 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. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. ” “They know you better,” he declared. . . " "Lead the way to it then, Saint Giles," said Jack, in a tone of mock authority. "My invitation did not extend to them.
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