An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. But she perceived that to tell Manning of her Ramage adventures as they had happened would be like tarring figures upon a water-color. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. She came into the room. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. 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. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. She had almost chosen to prostitute herself rather than live in that animal state once, but had found a warm cave in Kentucky just as situations had grown truly desperate. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. “All right so far,” she said to herself.
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