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. "Devilish nice ham you've got here!—capital pie!—and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. “Very well,” he said.
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