“Don’t bunch too much as you come out,” she added. 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. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. . Smith," observed Wood. ” “Do what?” “Oh!—anything. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that.
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