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. didn’t have to. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. ‘No one is here, Melusine, except you and I.
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