"I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. 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. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it.
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