It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. 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 occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. No one spoke to her. Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked.
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