She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. Maggot. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. 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. Wood uttered something like an imprecation. “There have been other times,” he said a little sadly. Hill was seated. The relationship seemed to have almost as much to do with blood and body as a mortgage.
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