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. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. We are asking you questions today because Sheila and Mark McCloskey had a foster child who we assume was probably your natural mother. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.
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