The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Anna was having tea by herself when she entered. . 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. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. Manning, I do not really want to marry. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. If my conjectures are right, this boy would stay there indefinitely. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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