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"I can't say I do," replied Wood. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. 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. I wonder if some of them did—and it didn’t get reported. “Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage.
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