She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. ‘It did not seem to me that it was so. 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. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious.
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