’ ‘Yes, Hilary, do stop hustling the girl,’ put in Miss Froxfield, much to Melusine’s relief and approval. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. “My wife. You're rich. ” “A sort of history,” said Mr. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. 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. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. The door to the library burst open.
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