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. But it is my fault. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said.
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