So she said: “I won’t come home. 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. . We hide it bravely, but so it is. Still —there you are!” He paused. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question.
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