And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth. ’ He bowed. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. “He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug. 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.
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