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. “It is positively no use, Anna,” she declared, appealingly. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle.
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