She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Sanguine they were not. Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name. He shook his head. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. My little maidservant will think that I am lost. 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. I took him out of the hands of death.
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