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 was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. ’ Gerald moved to the long sofa, dusted it with elaborate care with one of its cushions, and with a gesture invited her to sit down.
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