To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. It was a purse. Save my seat. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. 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 signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. She told us that it was a disguise. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun.
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