Jack was lying so still, for a moment she panicked. 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. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. But I waited in vain. “In Paris. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. “It’s a new phase in the life history,” he remarked. “You no longer belong to Gianfrancesco. "Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible person would do.
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