It wasn’t pretty. 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. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. He looked at his friend. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. ” He hesitated, and went off at a tangent.
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