Following his guide, Sir Rowland found himself in a large and lofty apartment, the extent of which he could not entirely discern until lights were set upon the table. "That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder. " "So it seems," observed the woollen-draper, "and for every one else, too. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you. 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. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position.
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