From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. 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. Not afraid of me, either. ’ ‘Damn you, answer me!’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. .
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