“If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that. 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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