Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. Nothing else matters. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. 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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