Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. "Good night, Master. 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. As you brew so must you drink. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. I can remove the prisoner at any hour of the night I think fit: and I will remove him.
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