’ Melusine found her tongue. Straw and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of the audiencechamber. 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. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ1LjEwMi4xMTggLSAwOS0wNi0yMDI0IDE5OjAwOjA2IC0gMzMwOTE5NjI5
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