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"Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. “Because I hate you!” She spat. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressingdown? Very well. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. 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. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions. .
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