Smith had never seen anything like it. 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. “Would YOU like us—if some one told you the bare outline of our story?— and what we are doing?” “I shouldn’t mind,” said Ann Veronica. "Here's the door. ‘Cover her, men. E.
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