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But that explains everything. As a matter of fact it isn’t their affair. 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. I—listen. Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. "Get a chair, Austin. It's all very well to read him a lesson, and teach him obedience; but you've gone far enough for that. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose.
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