God only knows what I have done, or left undone. Here, turnkey. I've got an address here. I can't bear it. “Your mother was a Gypsy. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. That is why I am glad that she has gone to London. 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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