"It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. 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. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. “I’d run away with you in a heartbeat. I die happy—quite happy in beholding you.
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