Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. 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. “For instance?” She smiled.
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