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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. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. " "Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or——" "To the proof," interrupted the stranger, calmly. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. And then I'll pay off old scores.
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