Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. 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.
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