Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. Luckily, they were not easily discomposed. I don't think. 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. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor.
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