Let me finish what I have to say.

You are ill, mademoiselle--ill from over-work.

You are an improvisatrice--that is, you have the emotional genius of music, a spiritual thing unfettered by rules, and utterly misunderstood by the world.

You cultivate this faculty, regardless of cost; you suffer, and you will suffer more.

In proportion as your powers in music grow, so will your health decline.