. ’ ‘But why, Marthe,’ asked Melusine, as she walked into the house. 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. In the present case it did not matter, as there was no one else within earshot. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack.
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