Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be. "No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. 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. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. ’ She spoke with difficulty, holding down the rising emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.
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