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He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. Presently, two carriages dashed down the hill, and drew up before it. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. 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. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. She would never again be lonely. .
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