” She replied vaguely. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. CHAPTER XVII. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. 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. "Mr. ‘Cover her, men. ” “Are you in a hurry,” she asked carelessly. .
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