Fifty pupils. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. 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. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. A mosquito had been trapped inside and was perfectly preserved for thousands of years.
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