Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. "Oh! you men! you men! Once get a thing into your head, and nothing will beat it out.
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