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. ‘You have no idea how dull the militia is compared to the Army. Would you like to borrow some of my clothes? I think we're about the same size. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Her back stiffened. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams.
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