But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. 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. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. He has no imagination, no real generosity. It is a most wonderful piece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit. "He is," returned Quilt, significantly.
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