. A conviction that her sister’s words were true had from the first possessed her. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. She went next day to the schools, and her world seemed all made of happiness just worked up roughly into shapes and occasions and duties. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. 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.
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