In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. “Like him who stood on Darien I view uncharted sea Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights Before my Queen and me. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. 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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