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. “I can’t endure it,” she said. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. One night she apparently fell asleep.
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