Melusine gave herself a little mental shake. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. 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 ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. “I want you to kiss me,” she said.
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