"At all events, I've not done with you. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. 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 one must disguise oneself. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice.
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