Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. "Sir Rowland must be gone. We are off for a second honeymoon. It is impossible. 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. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. It was the first expression of the mother's blood.
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