It was the god Pan, the goat-footed lord of rivers and woods, sitting beside her, who blew into his pipes and stirred the blood of men and women to frenzies of joy and fear.
There was fear and exultation in her heart.

A pagan voluptuousness spread through her limbs.

Jonah paused for a moment, and then broke into the pick of his repertory.

And Clara listened, hypnotized by the sounds, her brain mechanically fitting the words to the tune: Come to me, sweet Marie, sweet Marie, come to me! Not because your face is fair, love, to see; But your soul, so pure and sweet, Makes my happiness complete, Makes me falter at your feet, sweet Marie.
The vulgar, insipid words rang as plainly in her ears as if a voice were singing them.

Jonah stopped playing, and stared at her with a curious glitter in his eyes.