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. ’ He bowed. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. F. CHAPTER XII. . And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it.
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