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. They were sharp and dripping with black blood. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. Rhea went down, screeching and clawing at the air for the sword, which clanked heavily on the ground. These particulars are familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge.
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