‘Parbleu, but it is not comfortable in the least in there. ‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head. She wanted to live. They sold him the whisky. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. 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. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble.
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