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 hope you are going to Carey House. Light flooded the place. " "What ho! Blueskin!" shouted Jack. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool.
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