‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave. It was not a long prayer. ” She looked up at him quickly. “I hate this!” Lucy accused him, pointing to the Michelle. 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 handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again.
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