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She had never let off a pistol in her life. “Annabel Pellissier is known to most of us. Grasping it firmly with both hands, he quickly wrenched if from the stones in which it was mortised, and leapt to the ground. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. 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. It ought never to have begun.
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