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. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked.
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