She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses.
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