I fight. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. “But if you knew anything of that—” “I did. 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. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered.
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