He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. " She paused. 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 some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. I was a novelty.
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