She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. . “She must go her own way. 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. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. "Here, Poll, help me!" Thus exhorted, Mrs.
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