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‘What am I looking for?’ ‘A miniature. ” “Just so,” the doctor remarked drily. 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. Wood obeyed. Rumor in the Palazzo had it that her new doctor was a powerful archbishop from the south who conducted most of his dealings in secret. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom, it halted. I said to myself, ‘this will come.
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