Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her. Michelle stood perplexed. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old. 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.
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