Sepulchre's clock struck eight. Mr. "Another time," replied the thief-taker, evasively. 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. She was alone with a deadly enemy. She began to look for beauty and discover it in unexpected aspects and places. As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled.
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