Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. 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. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. The jailers robbed the prisoners: the prisoners robbed one another. “Then I don’t take this as final. His frowning gaze came back to her. Epithalamy might do.
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