" "Mend!" echoed Mrs. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. 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. The gong will go at seven-thirty. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxOS45NS40MSAtIDA2LTA3LTIwMjQgMTg6MTI6MjcgLSAxOTYxNDY3OTI0
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