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. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. There isn’t. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. This is retribution. "Thanks to you," said the doctor.
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