She examined Michelle’s pale face. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned. ‘Do you think it is the man in the moon that I mean? What is it that Gérard has told you?’ ‘That you need help. 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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