" "Piano-player? Do you mean someone who plays for you?" "No, no; one of those mechanical things you play with your feet. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. 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. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. White,” the lady in black satin remarked. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me.
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